LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf. .ZaB^Z7 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



BEATRICE 



A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS. 



BY 



/ 

/ 



BOSTON, MASS.: , ^p. oA y^'j;^ 

N. Wilson & Co., Publishers, V ^ ''uV 

112 Beach Street. ^^Xj^WAjHW'^'^ / 






COPVRICHTED, 

1892. 

A^Z rights reserved. 



TMP92-008692 



INTRODUCTION. 



-THE storv of Beatrice is founded just before the period of Pericles' supreme 

1 control of the Government of Athens, and extends until within a few years 

before his death, /. e., between 470 and 432 B. C. . , r ,• 

Philotas, an ambitious but unscrupulous scoundrel, having become tired of his 
beautiful young wife Adrene, and ashamed of his child on account of his deformity, 
had them abducted sixteen years before the opening of the first scene of the play. 
Adrene was sold into slavery, but the boy was kept by Mardonius, Chief of the 
pirate gang, with whom he lived until his ambition to become a sculptor led him to 
abandon their reckless life and seek his fortune in Athens. The fact of his leaving 
the pirates leads Mardonius to demand the balance of the money Philotas was to 
pav for the abduction of his wife and child. The place of meeting was at a secluded 
spot in Alimus, on the coast of Greece, where the mother and child lived happily be- 
fore their abduction. Philotas is brought to Mardonius by his men. At first he 
refuses to accede to the demand of the pirates, but agrees to do their bidding when 
threatened with the exposure of his villany. Adrene, who has escaped from her 
captivity, visits the scene of her former home, where she meets Philotas, and takes 
him to task for his brutality. Thinking she is in league with the pirates, and that 
they have deceived him regarding her death, he strangles her. Troilus, whose name 
has been changed by Mardonius to Agoracritus, visits the place to take a farewell 
of his childhood's home, when he is recognized by his dying mother, who, before 
her death, tells him of the brutal act of Philotas, but left him ignorant of his 
relationship, hearing which, he swears revenge. 

In Athens, Agoracritus works at copying the statues in the Parks, and lives in a 
cave outside the city, with Beatrice, a child whom he found in the arms of a woman 
whom he supposed was killed by lightning. 

Cassandra, daughter of the wealthy Timotheus, having met Agoracritus m the 
parks of Athens, engaged in copying statues, became greatly interested in his career, 
which interest soon ripened into love, and through her influence Phiedias consents to 
receive him as a pupil, she informing Agoracritus of this fact while in the park, 
fronting the Temple of Eumenides. A tempest approaching, she leaves for home. 
Agoracritus remaining to finish the copy upon which he is engaged, but is soon 
interrupted in his labor bv a number of people who seek shelter in the park, and 



who stone him, making him break his work. Enraged at these acts he takes hold 
of the miscreant, but is stopped by Philotas from doing further harm. Philotas has, 
by this time, obtained an enviable position in the government of Athens, but his 
identity is unknown to Agoracritus. He at first threatens the sculptor with impris- 
onment, but changing his mind, orders him to leave the city. While alone the storm 
rages; Agoracritus is nearly heartbroken by the sentence, but is encouraged by the 
appearance of his adopted child. While in each other's embrace, Cassandra suddenly 
enters and warns him of the approach of several officers, headed by Philotas, who, 
with the rabble, were returning to arrest him for assaulting a citizen. Agoracritus, 
learning of Philotas' identity, springs upon him, but is overpowered by the officers. 
Hearing Cassandra's cry for him to seek shelter in the Temple of Eumenides, where 
the fugitive is safe, he releases himself from their grasp and gains this asylum, leaving 
his pursuers powerless to do him further harm. 

By the influence of Cassandra, Agoracritus obtains a pardon and is received as 
a pupil by Phiedias, under whose instruction he becomes a sculptor of great ability, 
and during the ten years which elapse between the second and third acts, has become 
an idol of the people, while Beatrice has developed into a famous beauty, of whom 
Aspasia, the mistress of Pericles and a leader of fashion, is jealous. During this 
period Cassandra has been given by her father to Philotas in marriage, but the par- 
ticulars of the affair is unknown to Agoracritus, who thinks she has trifled with his 
love. A banquet is given by Aspasia in honor of Agoracritus, the real purpose, 
however, being to get Beatrice under the control of Philotas. Agoracritus and Cas- 
sandra meet at this feast, for the first time since her marriage, when an explanation 
follows, and they resign themselves to their hopeless love. During the festivitives of the 
banquet Cassandra becomes insane and rushes from the scene; she is followed by Ago- 
racritus and a few others, when, at a signal from Philotas, an old woman named Cretheus 
and a number of people enter. Cretheus, claiming Beatrice as her daughter, attempts 
to force the child to leave with her. Beatrice's cries are heard by Agoracritus, who 
rushes to her assistance. Philotas, by a speech to the people, tells them not to 
tolerate interference by Agoracritus, who has no legal claim upon her. Agoracritus 
calls upon the people to show their justice, and demands proof of Cretheus' relation, 
ship. The appeal wins the people and turns the tide of public approval in his favor, 
and he is allowed to keep Beatrice until proofs are furnished. In the last Act, Alcibi- 
ades notifies Agoracritus that the claim of Cretheus is only a scheme of Philotas 
and Aspasia to ruin Beatrice and give her in the power of Philotas, who desires 
her as his mistress, and unless Agoracritus can prove the relationship of the child they 
would obtain their purpose. He also informs him -of the death of Cassandra. Agora- 
critus tells Beatrice of the truth of his relationship and the manner in which she was 
found. Cretheus precedes the party who were to take the child, and overhears the 



confession. Agoracritus and Beatrice leave the room, when Aspasia, Philotas and 
others enter. Agoracritus is called upon to restore the child to the woman, but 
Cretheus stops them with the declaration that Beatrice is not hers, but the daughter 
of Aspasia, she being nurse to Aspasia fifteen years before, the child being taken 
from her when she lay unconscious from the effects of a stroke of lightning. Aspasia 
calls upon Agoracritus for her daughter, when he draws aside a curtain and discloses 
the dead form of Beatrice lying at the foot of a statue of Nemesis (which had been 
executed by Agoracritus under the supervision of Philotas, for the Government, the 
marble being left by the Persians during their unsuccessful invasion of Greece, and 
from which a Venus was to be carved), Beatrice being the model, but Agoracritus 
altered it to a Nemesis to commemorate his revenge. After exposing his work 
Agoracritus springs upon Philotas and stabs him, telling him, as he does so, of the 
murder of his mother. Philotas, dying, recognizes Agoracritus and tells him he is 
his father. He then takes his own life. 

It may be unnecessary to inform my readers that the incidents in this drama have 
no historical value, being purely ideal. The only truth being the fact that 
Agoracritus of Paros, a favorite pupil of Phiedias, after being invited in competition 
with an Athenian sculptor, to make a statue of Venus, and his work being given 
second honors, so exasperated him that he altered the statue to a Nemesis. What 
remains of this work of art was discovered a few years ago, and is now in the 
\'atican Museum. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MALES. 

Agoracritus. — A deformed sculptor. 

Philotas. — His father, 

MardoniUS. — Chief of the pirates. 

Appementus. — His heutenant. 

Bethoron. — > 

„ > Pirates. 

DORISCUS. — S 

Alcibiades. — An Athenian soldier. 

TiMOTHEUS. — Father of Cassandra. 

FEMALES. 

Adrene. — First wife of Philotas and mother of Troilus, who 

was afterward named Agoracritus. 
Cassandra. — Daughter of Timotheus, second wife of Philotas. 
ASPASIA. — Filling the place of wife to Pericles. 
Beatrice. — Adopted child of Agoracritus. 
Cretheus. — Nurse. 
Citizens, guests, soldiers, ballet girls, musicians, etc. 



BEATRICE. 



ACT I. 



SCENE: NIGHT. 



A dilapidated dwelling and garden on the coast of Alimus. 
The harbor in the background. 

A number of pirates lounging around, drinking. 

SONG, n RATES. 

To-day we'll haste to quaff our wine as if to-morrow ne 't- 
would shine, 

But if to-morrow comes, why then we'll haste to quaff our wine 
again. 

For death may come with brow unpleasant, 

May come when we least wish him present, 

And beckon to the sable door, and grimly bid us drink no 
more. 

{All laugh loudly) . 

DORISCUS. 
The night is hot, fill full. 

APPEMENTUS. 

More wine, ye slaves ! 

ALL. 
Aye! Aye! More wine. {Slaves fill goblets) . 



BETHORON. 

I'll wager an hundred drachma this journey is fruitless. 
What say you Doriscus? 

DORISCUS. 
He will not come. (^Drinks). 

APPEMENTUS. 

Philotas will be all too anxious to yield to our demand for 
neglect of tribute. Mardonius' love for the boy, Agoracritus, 
has kept us from our share of the booty. 

BETHORON. 

Sixteen years ago, when in our galley we carried off mother 
and son, by the order of Philotas, the chief promised immedi- 
ate division. 

DORISCUS. 

When the mother was sold as a slave in Persia, did we not 
account us satisfied? 

BETHORON. 
The boy, too, would have brought a good price. 

APPEMENTUS. 

We consented to Mardonius keeping Agoracritus as his 
share. 

DORISCUS. 

And where is that prize now? Left the chief so that he 
could make statues in- Athens. Ha! Ha! 

APPEMENTUS. 
I wish the boy had stayed with us. 



BETHORON. 

What good was he? 

APPEMENTUS. 

You know full well, than he, none of us was braver. He'd 
face the Furies themselves. 

( Whistles heard, instantly all confusion). 

BETHORON (/// cliff). 
'Tis Mardonius, 

( Enter Mardonius) . 
MARDONIUS. 
Appementus, is every avenue of approach guarded? 

APPEMENTUS. 

It is, Mardonius. I, myself, have looked to the guard. 

MARDONIUS. 

We are dealing with one who would not hesitate to take 
advantage of us, and are on forbidden grounds here. Doriscus, 
see that the boats are in readiness. An attempt may be made 
to surprise and overpower us. (Exit Dorisais over cliff). 
Bethoron, you watch the approach of this Philotas, and conduct 
him hither. Comes he attended, give warning. Appementus 
stays with me. The rest out of sight, but keep within hearing. 
(Exit all but Mardonius and Appementus). It nears the ap- 
pointed hour. We'll take no risks with Philotas. This is not 
the first time that I have dealt with such as he. He will not 
refuse to come, when old Mardonius calls. Ha, ha ! When we 
abducted his wife and child, he claimed their presence kept him 
from wealth and power. Since then he has gained both, so it 
is but fair that he should pay tribute to those who aided him. 
Let me see, Appementus, how many years have gone by since 
then? 



APPEMENTUS. 
Some sixteen, Mardonius. 

MARDONIUS. 

Ye gods, how time flies. (Looks at house scrutinisingly .) It 
has wrought great changes here. Methinks I hear the mother's 
shriek as we tore the child from her arms. A fitting spot for a 
meeting with the husband and father, Philotas. No signal? 

APPEMENTUS. 

None ; he will not come. 

MARDONIUS {fiercely). 

Not come! not come! Why — Oh patience, Mardonius, 
patience ! 

APPEMENTUS. 

You are in a strange mood to-night, chief. 

MARDONIUS. 
The parting with the boy, Agoracritus, 

APPEMENTUS. 
You have taken hundreds of brats and sold them. 

MARDONIUS. 

True, but I took to this one from the first, for his Spartan 
courage and his talents. 

APPEMENTUS. 

He was a strange one. 

MARDONIUS {enthiisiastically) . 
Such grit — we all liked him, did we not Appementus? 



APPEMENTUS. 

He had few enemies among us. 

MARDONIUS. 

True, true. Ah, I cherished the hope he would one day 
take my place-at the head of my band. Poor boy, I hope his 
Hfe will be happy ; ours did not hold his heart, so I gave him 
his freedom. 

( Loud lohistle tvithouf) . 

APPEMENTUS. 
The signal. 

MARDONIUS. 

'Tis he. Retire Appementus, but keep close at hand. 
{^Exit Appemeiitits). Now, then, to see of what kind of metal 
this brave General Philotas is made. 

{Philotas enters) . 

MARDONIUS. 
So, Philotas, you did not fear to meet old Mardonius? 

PHILOTAS. 

Fear? (^looking about suspiciously). Why have you sent for 
me? 

MARDONIUS. 

I have business with you, my brave Philotas. 
PHILOTAS. 

Transact it with the utmost haste. My absence from the 
city will be noticed. 

MARDONIUS. 

I have sent for you to demand full settlement for removing 
certain incumbrances from Philotas' path. 



PHILOTAS. 

Why have you chosen this spot? 

MARDONIUS. 

So that the aspiring Philotas might better appreciate the 
great service rendered him. 

PHILOTAS. 

Cease, Mardonius. Wh}' have you been silent all these 
years ? 

MARDONIUS. 

Our generous natures permitted us not to trouble Philotas 
while he was poor. Through our aid he is now at the pinnacle 
of fame, and we demand our due. 

PHILOTAS. 
What sum do you ask? 

MARDONIUS. 
Five thousand drachma, 

PHILOTAS. 
You are mad, Mardonius. 

MARDONIUS. 
Not SO. 

PHILOTAS. 
And this money is to be paid — 

MARDONIUS. 
Within a month, at this spot. 



PHILOTAS {aside). 

I will seemingly comply, and in the meantime devise a way 
to circumvent them all. (Aloud). I yield to Mardonius on 
condition that you give me assurance that the woman and child 
are dead. 

MARDONIUS. 
The woman was sold into Persia. Troilus is dead. 

PHILOTAS. 
You are not playing me false? 

MARDOXIUS. 

No. 

PHILOTAS {aside). 

Free, free at last ! At last the demon of uncertainty has 
glided from off my path. {^Alond). And now, I think this in- 
terview may come to an end. My galley waits, Mardonius, 
Remember, we meet again. 

MARDONIUS. 

Within a month. {Going up cliff). 

PHILOTAS. 

Within a month. 

MARDONIUS. 

Fail not, or Athens may know that their rising idol sold a 
trusting wife and a helpless child into slavery. 

( Exit Ma rdo n ins ) . 

PHILOTAS {implying a threat). 

We will meet again, but not alone — cursed be you, Mar- 
donius. Adrene dead — the child dead — what have I to fear? 



At the appointed time these several galleys by me commanded, 
will encompass and destroy the pirate crew, who share with me 
the secret of my life'. Ah ! the pages of history record not the 
deeds of its noblest heroes, it is to the memory of its destroyers, 
whose hands have reeked with its heart's warm blood, that 
humanity builds its grandest towers. Ask it to name the 
reward it offers the benefactors of our race, and it will scornfully 
answer, "death and persecution." Well, I have made myself the 
trusted friend and adviser of Pericles. (Shouts of the pirate 
crew hi the distance; Philotas pauses and listens; shouts continued. 
Philotas goes up cliff, looking off). Mardonius is setting sail, he 
has given me. his trust. You ghoulish fiends ! I'll keep faith 
with you, meet you within a month. Within a month, but not 
alone. (Exit off cliff) . 

{Enter Adrcne). 

ADRENE. 

This is the hour when Death's twin sister, Sleep, sits 
heaviest on the senses, when, wrapt in its soothing folds, life's 
pains and pleasure are alike forgot. How chill the night air 
falls upon me ; even the stars have vanished, as though wearied 
of their ceaseless vigil, have wrapt their forms in cloud-woven 
sheets and sunk to peaceful slumber. A fitting time for me, a 
fugitive from bondage, lured by affection, to seek those fields 
on whose rich verdure in years long past I have often 
stayed my hunger. Alas ! I find the pastures where my love 
would feed, overgrown with weeds, and those childish scenes 
which in fond remembrance always retain their freshness, now 
marked by desolation. Ah, me ! Here is the house, but void 
of life. Ah, you deserted walls ! If you could speak, what tales 
you could unfold ! But you are silent, and the injustice you 
have witnessed must remain a secret to all but to those who 
suffer. My child ! my child ! where are you to-night? There 
is the room where oft I lulled him into peaceful, childish sleep, 



but those walls no more enclose his form, perhaps the grave 
performs that office now. Ah, me ! why will clouds obscure 
our sunlight? Why has the dirge of sorrow the power to hush 
the song of happiness? {PJiilotas comes down, Adrene starts 
and listens). Did I hear a footstep? But why should I fear? 
That step again, some one is approaching, I must secrete my- 
self until they pass. I have no wish to be seen, {^Hides be- 
hind wall of house. During Philotas' soliloquy, Adrene has 
quietly moved to the doorway, and stands there zvith the moon- 
light streaming upon her) . 

{Philotas comes down cliff) . 
PHILOTAS. 

Methinks I heard a voice. {Pause). A voice akin to 
Adrene's. {Pause). There it is again. {Listens ivith fear). 
The unsounding blow of silence shatters my nerves, I will away 
to my galley. These quiet scenes of nature give no solace to 
a mmd corrupt by ambition. 



Philotas ! 



PHILOT.\S {startled). 



Ad 



rene 



ADRENE. 
Have I taken on an unnatural form that you stand amazed? 

PHILOTAS. 
Adrene, not dead ! 

ADRENE. 

Vile wrecker of my life, what brings you to this spot at 
this still hour of night? Do your brutal acts haunt you? Does 
sleep refuse its office? Where is my child, you monster? Oh 



that the gods would for a moment grant me strength to tear 
your form apart ! Incestuous beast ! Does that breast contain 
no heart? Has vice and crime taken such possession of you 
that nothing but your shape remains? 

PHILOTAS. 

Cease this tirade, or I'll dumb your voice by force. 

ADREXE. 

Threaten as you will, monster, I care not. I defy you ; you 
have done your worst. You have wrecked my life, and doomed 
me to a living death. Lured me from my home when a girl, 
and with your lying tongue poured such tales of love in my 
ears, that I forgot the world held 'aught but you. 

PHILOTAS. 
Cease, ill may betide you. 

ADRENE. 

Oh, that words could express the hate that I bear you ! Tell 
me, fiend, where is my child, from whose birth commenced your 
brutality? Answer, where is he? So that I may acquaint him 
with your cursed deeds and invoke his vengeance. Where is 
he, speak ! 

PHILOTAS. 

Ask the pirate gang, whose tool you are, perhaps they can 
tell you. 

ADRENE. 

You sold that tender child to pirates? Was it not enough 
to wreak your hatred on me? Must you also destroy my child? 
Oh, ye gods, if you have vengeance stored that was not too 
great to hurl at crime yet committed by man, launch it at his 
cursed head, and scatter to the wind the form of this monster. 



PHI LOTAS. 

Enough, I'll hear no more. {Strangles her). 

ADRENE. 

Help, Help ! 

PHILOTAS. 

Your cries are useless, I have my wish. My hands now 
clasp your throat, and I'll not release my hold till death shall 
make you silent. Curse you! {Throws her on the stage). I, 
the aspiring Philotas, play pupil to a woman who has oft bid 
me follow a conscience well directed. Ha ! Ha ! How I hate 
the word ! That mawkish sentiment, which at the contempla- 
tion of great deeds hides its -pale face in fear, then waits to see 
if success attends the act before it gives approval. Why, it is 
on the ashes of their conscience men build ambition's towers. 
Why, then, should I build mine upon a less secure foundation? 
I put on the clownish garb of honesty, and with unnatural 
tricks and antics amuse a thieving world — oh, no, my ambi- 
tion leads me not in untrodden paths, the beaten track best 
suits me. Now I am free, and nothing stands to hinder me 
from power. But how has it been attained? Thought never 
planned a deed so base, but it could find a heartless ghoul 
standing in readiness to execute; such an one am I. I, who, 
was my form as dark shaded as my heart, its shadow would 
eclipse the sunlight. Farewell, you simpering, love-sick fool, 
all fears of your presence to avert my plans are now ended. 

{Exit). 

{Enter Ago racri tics). 

AGORACRITUS. 

This is the place, but like the body of a friend whose motion 
death has stilled, the life that gave it thought and expression 



has vanished. Is the sight of this deserted spot the only reward 
of my toilsome journey? Why this longing in the human 
breast to visit its childhood's home? Is it the remembrance of 
the pure joys we experienced, ere the rasping friction of man's 
injustice blunts our finer sensibilities and lowers the scale of 
action, or is it because the divine part of our nature, which 
philosophers term the soul, when freed from earth by death, love 
to linger o'er these spots, hallowed by such sweet recollections, 
and thus by the invisible chord of sympathy draw the minds of 
their late loved ones toward them, a longing that not only hugs 
us in our waking hours, but even when sable-mantled sleep 
wraps us in its folds and makes us unconscious of Time's shifting 
scenes, paints with its silent hand in life-like colors those cher- 
ished scenes on our minds, whose beauty make us oblivious 
,to all else. It was but a short time since, when sleeping under 
the spreading branches of an olive tree, that this unseen artist 
began his work. I dreamed that once again I was a child ; a 
mother's care still guarded me ; in playful glee around those 
now deserted halls I ran, till, tired of my play, I sought her 
arms, and with my head reclining on her breast, listened to her 
song, a gentle lullaby. While enjoying the ecstacy of maternal 
love, the thrill of pleasure stirred the tide of consciousness, and 
I awoke to find myself still an outcast, the moon and stars my 
silent watchers. Oh, that the sweet vision had but lasted until 
my eyes had grown weary, and this throbbing heart had ceased 
to beat ! Home, it is the last time that I shall ever visit you. I 
will walk around, gaze in the windows, and in imagination 
see the form of her whose blessed smile shall light its walls no 
more. (Walks doivn garden path). 



That form — can it be? {Rises to her feet by the aid of the 
rocks). 



AGORACRITUS {returning). 

Farewell, dear spot, the thought of once more gazing upon 
you has cheered long, weary hours, but the chief attraction has 
vanished. Home, without a mother's face to brighten it, is as 
gloomy as the canopy of heaven when obscured by the thunder 
clouds. 

ADRENE {aside). 

'Tis he. 

AGORACRITUS {seeing her by the dim light) . 

Ah, what is that ! Thou midnight visitor to this deserted 
home, if flesh and blood make up your form, or matter finer 
than that of which we mortals dream compose your shape, 
speak ! If the melodious pipes of speech hold lodgment in your 
throat, announce the purpose of your coming. I fear you not, 
then why fear me? If human passions animate you, if you are 
an outcast, hungry, homeless and friendless, be not afraid ; in 
all these, aye, more, you have a counterpart in me. 

ADRENE. 
Whom do you seek? 

AGORACRITUS. 

That voice ! A short time since I heard it in my dreams. 
Who are you, speak, and break this terrible suspense. 

ADRENE. 
Your mother. 

AGORACRITUS. 

That word, with accents steady, again voice out, that I may 
feel assured illusion's folly no longer laughs at reason. 

ADRENE. 

Troilus, fear not. 



AflORACRITUS. 

Troilus, at the mention of that name all doubts have van- 
ished, and in the heart long shadowed in despair the flickering 
light of hope shines out. My mother ! My mother ! 
{^Embraces her). 

ADRENE. 

My child ! My child ! For this great pleasure let us thank 
the gods. 

AGORALRITUS. 

Of all their favors unto mortal, none greater ere was 
granted. 

ADRENE. 

So great, my child, that its fulfilment has almost dumbed 
my voice, and bereft my limbs of motion. 

AGORACRITUS {taking her to a seat in the garden). 

Here, mother, is a seat on which in years gone by you have 
often sat; recline upon it, and while the midnight air stirs the 
leaves in gentle murmurs at its intrusion, I'll listen to the music 
of your voice. Relate your life since last we met. 

ADRENE. 

The thought of once more seeing you has sustained me 
through weary years of captivity, from which I recently escaped. 

AGORACRITUS {violently). 
You have been in captivity? 

ADRENE. 

Yes, a slave, with all the horror the name implies. 



AGORACRITUS. 

The cause, mother? Who did this? I will tear his black- 
ened heart from out his breast. 

ADRENE. 

Calm thyself, anger is but insanity's frail mask. 

AGORACRITUS. 

How can I be calm when I listen to your wrongs, mother? 

ADRENE. 

They are almost ended, 

AGORACRITUS. 

That does not banish the remembrance of the treachery. 
His name, my mother? 

ADRENE {fain/Iy). 

Think no more of what he has done ; support me with your 
arms, I grow weaker. 

AGORACRITUS. 

You are ill, dear mother, this is not the place for you. I 
must take you hence. 

ADRENE. 

Wearied of my long journey, I sought this, my former home, 
that under this midnight sky, with the sweet recollections of my 
early life for companion, I could close my eyes in death. 

ACiORACRlTUS. 

Death ! Speak not of that stern separator. 

ADRENE. 

I am dying. Already I feel those beating throbs that meas- 
ure out our lives, grow fainter. Hold me firmer. I have seen 
he who sold me, he has just completed his work. 



AGORACRITUS. 

Mother, there are marks of violence upon your throat. 
Who did this? Oh, ye gods, what beastly hearts the human 
form conceals ! Who did this? (Adre}ie swoons). Speak to 
me, mother. 

ADRENE {recoverijig). 

The chilly hand of death grows colder. 



His name, mother? 

Philotas. 
Philotas ! 



AGORACRITUS. 



ADRENE. 



AGORACRITUS. 



ADRENE. 

Press your lips to mine, there let me sleep. (^Dies). 

AGORACRITUS. 

Dead, dead, and I am left alone. Philotas ! Ye gods, ye 
gods, if in your hands you hold the thread of life, and spin it 
at your will, snap not the chord too quick that holds this wretch 
to earth. When once I clutch his throat, draw life out, let slow- 
ness govern action, aye, prolong it as you will, I will not relax 
my hold until my hands shall teach him how a hunchback takes 
revenge. 

ENU ACr I. 



ACT II. 

Scene. — One of the Parks in Athens, in which are seen 
several statues. 

The Temple of Eumenides in the distance. 

i^Entei' Cassandra, hnyking a round expectantly) . 

CASSANDRA. 

Not here? He was to finish the copy for me, and it is now 
past the hour of appointment ; something detains him. How 
happy you will be, Agoracritus, when you hear the good news I 
bring, and to make you happy is my only thought, — but how 
will our love end? {Enter Agoracritus) . Agoracritus? 

AGORACRITUS. 
Daughter of Timotheus, I am late, but you seem surprised 
at my coming. 

CASSANDRA. 

You know the thought of pleasure in anticipation often 
agitates us. We are thrilled much more when pleasure comes 
upon us unexpected. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Does my presence give you such pleasure? 

CASSANDRA. 

How can you ask? But you have my copy, may I look at 
it? 



AGORACRITUS {handing her the copy). 

I fear that to the eyes of those who have admired the works 
of the masters, it will show but Httle merit. 

CASSANDRA. 

I fear you are too severe a critic of your abihty; I should 
say that this work possesses great merit, but I suppose my 
judgment in such matters has but little weight, since to him who 
can create, alone belongs the right to criticise. 

AGORACRITUS. 

In that you differ from the majority of people. Art al- 
ways finds its severest censure from those having the least 
ability to create. 

CASSANDRA. 

A mere pretence, thinking that by finding fault with the 
work of others to assume to the eyes of the world the posses- 
sion of ability that nature never gave them. The criticism of 
him who can show the imperfections of the work of others in 
his own superior creations, are alone worthy of notice. Don't 
your friends think as I? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Friends? Deformity and poverty possess no power to 
attract to their holder, friendship. 

CASSANDRA. 

Do not speak of your deformity, it is but slight. It is your 
great love of the beautiful that magnifies it. 

AGORACRITUS. 

It is kindness that forms your words, but I am too conscious 
of the imperfections of my shape to be deceived. The friend- 
ship of the world I never expect. Copying these beautiful 



statues serves to divert my mind from those unpleasant thoughts, 
for when alone in the cave I call my home, on Mount 
Hymettus, the remembrance of them often overpowers me. 

CASSANDRA. 
But your parents, are they dead? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Cassandra, to no mortal have I told the secret of my life. 
My father I never knew, my mother was murdered, and to 
avenge her death is the incentive that urges me on, often 
against my will ; without it, my love for you and my art would 
not sustain me in my privations. 

CASSANDRA. 

Hush, let Time inflict punishment with the stinging blows of 
memory ; rather let the knowledge that the gods have given 
you great talent be the prompter to stir you onward. Live 
happy in my love and your art; the reward of genius is sure to 
attend you, 

AGORACRITUS. 

I have already had the first part of that reward. 

CASSANDRA. 
In what way? 

AGORACRITUS. 

In being cursed while living, the latter part, in being praised 
when dead, concerns me less. 

CASSANDRA. 

And you have no desire to leave behind a name that shall 
stand famous in art? 



AGORACRITUS. 

Why should I? Fame holds no power to check the dissolv- 
ing forces of nature, to gild with joy or taint with sorrow the 
dreams" of those who sleep the silent sleep of death. 

CASSANDRA. 

Though we may often suffer, we cannot deny that life holds 
many pleasures. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Neither do I. If the flower possess a repugnant odor, yet 
we may admire the beauty of its form and color. I am but a 
plain man, and a poor painter of human nature ; my sketches I 
make in black and white, their coloring I leave to those who 
succeed in buying without detection the honor of the world, 
with counterfeit money, which stands as a rebuke to the ability 
of the gods who have declared that these can only be purchased 
with pure and honest coin. 

CASSANDRA. 
Why hold such a dreary view of life? 

AGORACRITUS. 

I trust life will always turn its brightest side towards you, 
Cassandra, but do not be too sanguine; friends oft prove 
treacherous. 

CASSANDRA. 

I think mine never will. 

AGORACRITUS. 

I hope not ; but should it ever happen, I could give you 
advice that would help sustain you when you recoil beneath the 
blow. 



CASSANDRA. 
Let me hear it. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Place confidence in no one ; credit your friends with carrying 
beneath the cloak of policy the basest traits of human nature. 
If the cloak be always worn, think that self-interest and principle 
prompts their action ; should they become exposed to view, you 
would be spared the suffering of misplaced confidence. 

CASSANDRA. 

I cannot think that you would always follow this advice 
yourself. Do you think that I would prove treacherous to you ? 

AGORACRITUS. 

A beautiful woman's charms are irresistible ; under their 
influence wise men put on the garb of fools, and natural cowards 
aspire to heroic deeds. Their glow can melt the icy case of 
virtue, while their touch seduces truth. 

CASSANDRA. 

Then you admit that you are susceptible to female charms? 

AGORACRITUS. 

I suppose I am part human. 

CASSANDRA. 

Part human, do not talk so. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Why not? How does this hunchback trunk appear by the 
side of well-formed manhood? A creature so hideously 
deformed that it would seem as though nature, in anger at the 



human race, wishing to show^^how loathsome it could make a 
human form appear, had in its construction made visible its 
most terrible conception. 

CASSANDRA. 

Your deformity is so slight that to affection's eye its crooked 
lines reflect no shadow ; but forgive me, my dear, for not telling 
you that I have the promise of Phiedias that you shall have his 
instructions. 

AGORACRITUS. 

You have done this for me, Cassandra? I cannot realize 
that an object of ridicule like me can hold the affections of one 
so beautiful. 

CASSANDRA. 

To me you are all that is good ; my heart was yours from 
the first. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Darling, I fear something may happen to change your love, 
our positions in life are so different. 

CASSANDRA. 

True love, Agoracritus, like withered, rose leaves spread, 
retain their fragrance although the flower is dead. It forms 
for the heart a rich repast, on which to feed while life shall last. 

AGORACRITUS {kissing her) . 

I could press forever the lips that gave forth such sweet 
sound ; but you must away, a tempest is approaching, already 
the people are seeking shelter. 

CASSANDRA. 
Farewell for the present. 



AGORACKITUS. 
Farewell. 
(Ca.'sa;n/ra zvithdraws a few steps, then taking a flower from her 
breast, kisses it and gives it to Agoracritus ; she then exits). 

AGORACRITUS {pressing tJie flower to his lips). 
May the gods of Athens ever bless you ! I promised her I 
should complete this copy, it will take but a few moments. 
(Becrins to work on a small statuette). Oh, Philotas, this kmd- 
ness" gives your life a longer term for action. {While he ts 
working the rabble rush in shouting, -The hunchback, the hunch- 
back," and throw dirt at htm) . Stop, do not torment me, I am 
busy. 

RABBLE. 

The hunchback, the hunchback ! 

AGORACRITUS. 

Why will you persist in tormenting me? I love you all, and 
would not harm you. Go and leave me. 
RABBLE. 

The hunchback, oh, look at the hunchback ! 
{One oft/ie men throws a stone ivhich strikes Agoracritus, causing him 
to let his work fall, breaking it). 

AGORACRITUS. 
Fiends, demons ! {He rushes at one of the men and catches 
him by the throat). Curse you, you stone me for amusement. 

{Enter Philotas, pulling Agoracritus from the man). 
PHILOTAS. 
Villain, release that man. 



AGORACRITUS. 

He Struck me with a stone and made me break my work. 

PHILOTAS. 

Is that the reason why you would kill him ? 

AGORACRITUS. 

I would not kill him, the coward. 

PHILOTAS. 

The prison is the place for you, you deformed dog, and 
there you will go. 

AGORACRITUS. 

I, to prison, what mean you? 

PHILOTAS. 

This is the second time you have been the centre of such a 
scene. I will now see that you are placed where you can do 
no further harm. 

AGORACRITUS (aside). 

To prison! My child would starve. {Aloud). Oh, have 
mercy! You see before you a creature hunted by man and 
despised by the gods, one on whose care a tender child 
depends for bread and happiness ; do not increase her misery 
by sending me to prison. 

PHILOTAS. 

If not to prison, then you must leave the city. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Leave Athens, and return to the old life? Never. 



PHILOTAS. 

Silence ! Leave the city, I say, and remember, if you are 
again found within its walls, you go to prison. Now go. 

{Exit Philotas,folloK<ed by the rabble). 
AGORACRITUS. 

O you human-shaped demon ! Beloved Athens, must I 
leave you and your beautiful statues, that I have tried so hard 
to copy? Just as life is brightening, must the glittering ray be 
obscured? Can this wide world grant me no shelter? Ye 
powers of life, have you formed me from the waste chips cleft 
from the blocks from which you carve your graceful human 
statues, and on this loose-cemented and ill-fashioned form 
piled all the suffering that should be borne by fair-proportioned 
mortals? Mankind, I hate you! The sombre shades of yon 
dark cloud is not darker than the burning hatred of my heart. 
{Heavy sounds of thunder) . Ye mighty elements, voice out your 
strength! Oh, that I held your power ! With one quick stroke 
I'd split the earth, and sink mankind within its gaping chasm. 
{Heavy tlucnder and lightning) . Launch out your thunderbolts, 
Great Jove ; ye Heavens, your flood gates open, wash out and 
drench the world. Ye forked tongues, spit out your fire, with 
vivid flame envelop earth, and with unabated breath fan well 
your fires, till nothing but a charred and blackened mass shall 
mark humanity's late home. (Thunder). You growling ele- 
ments ! wail out earth's funeral dirge, split heaven with your 
music. O ye yelping, barking bloodhounds of the clouds, can 
not you whet your appetite with the unsavory mass of flesh that 
forms this hunchback trunk? Aim well your fiery darts, smite 
me to the earth, and cease, oh, cease this torture. 

{Enter Beatrice, unobserved by Agoracritiis, 70J10 goes to him and places 
her ar//is around his neck). 



BEATRICE. 
Father, dear, what is the matter? you are sad, 

AGORACRITUS {taking Jicr in his arms). 

Bright beam of sunshine in my darkened Hfe, how the sweet 
music of your voice drowns the world's unkindly roar ! What 
brings you here, my child? 

BEATRICE. 

It was so lonesome away on the hills, that I came to the 
city to see you. I knew I would find you here. 

{Enter Cassandra, /lasti/v). 

CASSANDRA. 

Fly, Agoracritus. They have procured a warrant for your 
arrest, for assaulting a citizen. Quick, you have not a moment 
to lose ! They are coming, I will care for Beatrice. 

{Enter PJiilotas and officers) . 

OFFICER. 

Is this the man we want, Fhilotas? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Fhilotas! He, Fhilotas ! {Rushes at him) . Inhuman demon, 
you try to destroy my life — you insatiate brute — 

{Officers overpower Agoracritus). 

CASSANDRA. 

To the temple, Agoracritus. Quick, it is your only refuge ! 

{Agoracritus throius them off and runs up cliff into the temple, some of 
the officers in pursuit) . 



PHILOTAS. 
Take him, quick ! 

CASSANDRA. 

He has sought refuge in the Temple of Eumenides, and is 
beyond your power. 

END ACT II. 



ACT III. 

Scene : — The Gardens of Aspasia, arranged for a banquet. 

In this scene several of the guests are from Persia, Egypt, 
Damascus, etc., their costumes forming a striking contrast to 
those of the Athenians. Many statues are arranged in order, 
around which the ballet dance with wreaths of roses. 

Beatrice is seen with a bunch of flowers in her lap. 

(Ten years have elapsed between Acts II and III.) 

BEATRICE. 

Sweet flowers, tinted sunbeams, let me kiss your painted 
cheeks, and with all the art of woman's wiles, try to win from 
you your secrets. Secrets that you have deemed too pure for 
human ears. Tell me of your birthplace. Is it in yon bright 
skies, where fleecy clouds drape themselves in delicate, artistic 
folds, whose colors form the artist's guide in tinting his creations ? 
How came you here? You came from where we know not, 
and leave us ere you have made the purpose of your coming 
known. Ah ! You will not tell me ; the perfume of your dying 
breath must be my only answer. 

(Enter Aspasia). 

ASPASIA. 

Well, my dear, deeply interested in the beauties of nature? 

BEATRICE. 

The love of beauty ever exerts a mysterious power within us. 
In the roses we see a faint reproduction of that beauty, which 
is alone visible of the mind of He who created them. In their 
formation, the susceptible mind hears the grandest strains of 
music as it pours forth from each leaf of beauty; may not the 



glories of creation that we behold be but the undulation of the 
great chorus of the universe, whose harmony pervades all space? 
There is music in every motion of animated life, music in every 
poetic thought, music in the glance of beauty, but above all 
there is music in the dancing sunbeam, whose rays make all 
things visible by flooding earth with light. Yes, there is music 
of the richest strain proceeding from each flitting sunbeam, 
whose advent the birds welcome by pouring out their praise in 
song. Well may the disciples of Philolaus and Pythagoras hail 
with harps the morning light, as it pushes its way through the 
sable cloak of night, arranging its chorus to sing to earth the 
melody of heaven. Is it unreasonable to suppose, then, that 
Ibycus uttered sublime truth when he told of the music in the 
everlasting stars? 

ASPASIA. 

A student of the philosophers. Why waste your time in 
pondering over such meaningless utterances? Life is too short 
to be spent in such unprofitable studies ; discard them. Think of 
the pleasures you are losing. Athens is ablaze with reports of 
your beauty ; a life of pleasure and gayety is within your grasp ; 
scores of the richest and handsomest men in Athens are ready 
to pay you homage ; but perhaps your heart has already passed 
from your keeping. 

BEATRICE. 

My father holds all the affection of which my nature is 
capable of bestowing. 

ASPASIA. 

That is filial affection, but there is a stronger love, over 
which we have no control, a love that never rests until it holds 
within its embrace the object of its worship. 

BEATRICE. 
I never yet met one who claims the love of which you speak. 



How can you expect to, while you live the secluded life 
that you do ? 

BEATRICE. 

The life I lead, lady, is the one that suits me best. In the 
care of my loving father, in my music, and painting, and in 
contemplation of those great truths the sages have taught I find 
sufficient pleasure. 

ASPASIA. 

That is because you know no other. Did you but taste the 
real pleasure of life, those which you now enjoy would seem 
insipid. 

BEATRICE. 

I have no wish to make the test. 

ASPASIA. 

It is a strange choice for one so young and beautiful, it 
grieves me to hear you express it. 

BEATRICE. 
Pardon me, lady, when I say I pity you. 

ASPASIA. 

What! pity me? Why do you think me deserving of your 
pity? I, Aspasia, the favorite of Pericles, and the leader of 
society. Is not my house the resort of the great and learned? 
Am I not the recipient of favors from princes and nobles? Am 
I not daily visited by the most fashionable women of Athens, 
who are anxious to learn the make of my garments, or the style 
in which I dress my hair? Pity, oh, no! you are mistaken, I 
am not to be pitied but envied, as I am envied by all the 
women in Athens. 



BEATRICE. 

Think, dear lady, of the frailty of the fame that you are 
seeking. Of what avail will it be to you, when on your dying 
couch your mind reviews the scenes of life. Men may speak 
of you as the gifted and beautiful, but will they speak of you as 
the good and pure? 

ASPASIA. 

Your words have moved me strangely. You have spoken 
to me as no woman has ever dared speak before, and have 
brought back the remembrance of my childhood days. I 
often think how gladly would I forsake my present life could I 
recall those happy days again. 

BEATRICE. 

That you feel so, is proof that the divine spark is not extin- 
guished. With good resolutions fan it into a living flame ; like 
a blazing torch, it will illuminate your steps when you tread the 
dark passage which opens into that realm where truth supremely 
reigns, and the sun of immortality keeps painting fresh glories 
with its beams. I beg of you to heed the promptings of your 
better nature; follow its teaching, and believe me, you will 
never regret it. Excuse me, now, lady, I must leave you for 
a few moments. {Exit). 

ASPASIA. 

What, tears, Aspasia ! Ha ! Ha ! Resolutions, oh, yes, 
when once I resolve I do not let my plans smoulder, and so 
with you, you fool, shall I surrender my power as a leader of 
society to this young, simple outcast? Not Aspasia! How I 
hate her. I hate her because she is pure, hate her because she 
holds a hidden power over me, that in her presence draws me 
to the scenes of my early 'life. Yes, I hate her because I love 
her. 

{Aspasia starfs to leave f/ie shi^s^e. Enter Cassandra) . 



CASSANDRA. 

How beautiful is the garden, Aspasia ! Will Pericles be 
present at the banquet? 

ASPASIA. 

No, matters of business will necessitate his absence. You are 
not looking well to-day, Cassandra. I hope the festivities will 
not fatigue you. Pardon me for a few moments, I must return to 
the house. I will tell your dear husband you are here. {Exit). 

CASSANDRA. 

A banquet in honor of Agoracritus, and I an invited 
guest. I, the bride of Philotas, must meet one, who for years, 
by words and acts shared my undying love. With what utter 
detestation he must look upon my act ; must I endure the look 
of scorn from he, whom to gain an approving smile would I 
have sacrificed all that makes life dear. Oh, Agoracritus, my 
heart's idol, did your noble heart know all, how freely you 
would forgive me, but you do not, you only know that she who 
pledged to you her love is now another's wife. My noble love, 
how these tear-filled eyes long to look upon you. Yet I can- 
not meet your gaze. The shining honesty that beams from 
them would burn my very soul. I am sick, a sickness that only 
death can cure. I will retire where solitude is my only com- 
panion, and there in fond dreams of what might have been, 
drag out my ruined life. Farewell, festivities and gaieties, in 
the hollow heart of the once joyous Cassandra, you are no 
longer a welcome guest. {Starts to leave the stage). 

{Elite?- Agoracritus). 
AGORACRITUS. 

Ah, permit me to congratulate you on the attainment of 
your ambition. 



CASSANDRA {agitafd/). 

My ambition? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Why yes, are you not the wife of the noble and handsome 
Philotas? Philotas, the idol of the fair and the envy of men? 

CASSANDRA. 
Oh, have mercy, Agoracritus. 

AGORACRITUS. 

That is a strange request for the bride of Athens' leading 
statesman and general to ask of a hunchback sculptor, 

CASSANDRA. 

Agoracritus, I implore you to desist, you will break my 
heart. 

AGORACRITUS. 

I should be loath to commit such a grave offence, fair one, as 
to destroy that priceless jewel which your noble husband values 
more highly than his life. 

CASSANDRA. 

Such sarcasm is foreign to your nature, Agoracritus. It 
is born of the revulsions of your feeling toward me. Did you 
know all — 

AGORACRITUS. 

I know enough, to know more would tend to destroy even 
the feeling of respect which is all that I desire to entertain 

towards you. 

CASSANDRA. 
Can you not bestow pity upon me, Agoracritus? 



AGORACRITUS. 



Oh yes, I can pity one who, blessed by the gods with such 
beauty of face and form, yet holds within her breast a heart 
where treachery, falsehood and deceit holds rivalry. 



CASSANDRA. 

Agoracritus, draw your dagger and pierce my breast; the 
wounds would be less painful than your words. 

AGORACRITUS. 

And less painful than the wounds you have inflicted upon me. 
Cassandra, I have suffered much ; for years I was a target at 
which the unthinking hurled their cutting shafts of derision, 
but the keenest blow was from the sharpened lance of deceit 
thrust at me yourself. 

CASSANDRA. 

Believe me, I never intended to wound you. 

AGORACRITUS. 

No doubt you thought this ungainly form insensible to feel- 
ing; that the tender words of love uttered by your silvery 
voice fell unheeded on my ears. Fool that I am, my punish- 
ment is just. I, a hunchback, an object of ridicule to the 
world, aspiring to the hand of a daughter of the wealthy 
Timotheus. Bah ! it is only a dream ; and may the remem- 
brance of it, like all visions of dreamland, by the stern realities 
of life be soon obliterated from my mind. Farewell, Cassandra, 
I part from you with the hope that your future may be happy. 

CASSANDRA. 

Stay, you shall not leave, believing me all that is vile. If 
my promises to you were broken, blame those who make our 
laws, for I married Philotas by my father's command. 



AGORACRITUS. 



What, he compel you to marry Philotas ! He, whom of 
all other men I most bitterly hate; what was his object? 

CASSANDRA. 

His ambition to gain power through the influence of Phil- 
otas. I was offered as the price. 

AGORACRITUS. 
Cassandra. Will you forgive the cruel words I have spoken? 

CASSANDRA. 

It is always easy to forgive those we love, Agoracritus. 
AGORACRITUS. 

It was you who kindled the first spark of love smouldering 
in my heart, and the memory of those happy hours shall ever 
keep it burning. Should the day ever come that you should 
be forsaken, remember that on the breast of Agoracritus you 
will find a refuge from unkindness. 

CASSANDRA. 

Let me rest my head upon that refuge now, and for one 
blissful moment forget the world's unkindness. (^He is about to 
take her in his arms)- 

AGORACRITUS. 

No, no, Cassandra, you forget that you are a wife. 

{^Enter Philotas unseen) . 

PHILOTAS. 
Ha! ha! A pretty picture, (Bxit). 



CASSANDRA. 

A wife ! Oh, Agoracritus, with what a sickening weight 
that word now falls upon me. 

AGORACRITUS. 

We must resign ourselves to our hopeless love, wear a smile 
to-night, Cassandra, though our hearts are heavy. 

CASSANDRA. 

I fear the strain will be too much, but for your sake, Agora- 
critus, I will try. 

(^Enter j^uests, who take their places at the table). 
ASPASIA. 

Agoracritus, you, in whose honor we have assembled, shall 
preside over the feast. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Your commands, fair lady, partake but little of the democ- 
racy of Athens, but coming from the lips of beauty I humbly 
accept the honor. 

ASPASIA. 

Cassandra, that far-away look but ill becomes you, 

CASSANDRA. 

Yet, why should they act so ? 

ASPASIA. 

Act so? What is the matter, Cassandra? 
CASSANDRA. 

Excuse me, Aspasia. Yes, I think it is very foolish, I mean 
very melancholy. 



AGORACRITUS. 

Sing one of Pindar's odes to her, Beatrice. She may like 
it better. 

BEATRICE. {Sif/gs.) 

Hail, celestial posy, fair enchantress of mankind, 
Vailed in whose sweet majesty, fables please the human 

mind ; 
But as year rolls after year, these fictitious charms decline ; 
Then, oh man, with holy fear, speak and write of things 

divine. 

ASPASIA. 

Still that melancholy look, Cassandra. A deep-seated 
gloom must surely rest upon you, when one of your favorite 
Pindar's odes fails to animate your countenance. 

CASSANDRA. 
Was that one of Pindar's odes? 

» ASPASIA. 

Yes, a favorite with you. 

CASSANDRA. 
I thought it sounded so gloomy. 

TIMOTREUS. 

You are allowing the responsibilities of marriage to weigh 
too heavy upon you, daughter. Let a pleasant smile play 
upon your countenance, while Aspasia sings some lively, pleas- 
ant ode. 



ASPASIA. (Siflgs.) 

While our rosy fillets shed 
Blushes on each fervid head ; 
With many a cup and many a smile,^ 
The festive moments we beguile. 
And while the harp impassioned flings 
Tuneful rapture from the strings, 
Some airy nymph, with fluent wings, 
Through the dance luxuriant swings, 
Waving, in her snowy hand. 
The leafy Dionysian wand ; 
Which, as the tripping wanton flies, 
Shakes her tresses to her sighs. 

PHILOTAS. 

Come, Cassandra, sing one of your favorite odes to Agora- 
critus, for friendship's sake ; I know you have been true friends. 

CASSAN DRA. {Excitedly rising from her seat) . 

True friendship, mockery, mockery. Tell me, ye wise and 
mighty ones, in what far-off world this fable phantom, friend- 
ship, dwells. Oh, ye powers. Could you not find a blunter 
lance than disappointed love to pierce our breasts? Oh, that 
I could but marbleize this heart, blunt sense of touch, turn this 
soft, yielding flesh to stone, dumb speech, blind sight, freeze 
the crimson fluid in these veins, and thus, statue-like and 
immovable, I could bid defiance to your sharpened darts, and 
scorn your mighty power. 

TIMOTHEUS. 

My child, my child, what is the cause of this wild exhibition 
of your feelings? 



CASSANDRA. 

Friendship and parental love, twin brothers of an unknown 
world, if out of imagination you have existence, quick visit 
earth and with well directed blows strike down the frauds that 
now usurp your name. Look upon me, do you not envy me, 
the beloved wife of the aspiring Philotas? Such honor is too 
heavy for my poor, weak shoulders. The contemplation of such 
sweet pleasure will soon upset my reason. The wife of Philotas, 
Ha! ha! 

AGORACRITUS. 

Speak to her, Beatrice, try to calm her ; she may listen to you. 

BEATRICE. 

Listen to me, dear lady, friend of my father, he bids me 
speak to you, whom he has ever looked upon as his truest 
friend. Your distress grieves him, let me beseech you to be 
calm. 

CASSANDRA. 

Sweet innocent, whose purity man's damning treachery has 
not yet blasted, if you would pure remain, resign yourself to 
death's embrace ; in its arms virtue alone finds safety. Let me 
kiss you. {Kisses her). There to the grave now go, within 
its dark walls seek shelter from foul, cursed man. 

ASrASIA. 

Come with me, Cassandra, you know that I am your friend. 

CASSANDRA. 

Yes, every one is my friend. Look, the very air is peopled 
with my friends ; they swarm around me like bees o'er a honey - 
ladened flower. Back, friends, do not crowd so thick, the 
warmth of your loving breath suffocates me. Friends increase, 
enemies decrease, and the verdure of sweet virtue grows luxu- 
riant. Oh, what a happy world is this I Ha! ha I ha I 



Come. 

CASSANDRA {poiiifiiiir to Philotas). 

Loving friends, life-long friends, look, see, — did }'our eyes 
ever rest upon a statue so fair proportioned? Treachery per- 
sonified ; Deceit dignified ; and Brutality crowned with ivy. 
{Sing,). 

The grain is grown, 

The grass is mown, 

And villain's deeds are but the seeds 

Of the plant the world calls Manhood. 

ASPASIA. 
Let us lea\'e here, Cassandra. 

r ASS AND R A. 

Leave all these dear friends? You are unkind, I cannot. 
Their presence is too precious, especially my dear, devoted 
husband. Never undervalue a husband's love, Aspasia, it is a 
jewel most rare, pure as a snow flake, though its life is shorter. 
{Sings). 

The owl may screech, and sages teach. 
While knaves make rules to guide poor fools. 
The libertine makes pliant tools of unsuspecting niaidens. 
Ha! ha! ha! 



Let me conduct you home, Cassandra. The excitement of 
the evening has made you nervous. 

CASSANDRA. 

Away from me, destroyer of my heart's first love, away I 
Why masquerade in man's apparel? To the wilderness go; if 
there the nobler beasts deny you kindred, seek the habitation 
of the crafty, subtile snakes, to them recite your deeds. If you 



are careful to relate only the least offensiv'e of your acts, they 
may consent to be your pupils. Away, away. 

PHILOTAS. 

Come, Cassandra, you had better return home. 

CASSANDRA. 

Back, back, coward! Why hide your dagger? Oh-, you 
wait an opportunity to stab me in the back. Strike while you 
look upon my face. Let your hand now do its first kind act. 
Ah, you are gaining courage. Quick, quick, why hesitate? 
You do not want to ! Oh, yes you do ! It is not will but cour- 
age you lack. Brave, brave, I now recall my words, I have 
shamed your cowardice to action {draivs an imaginary dagger 
from her breast and kisses it). Dearest friend, no flattering 
words precede your acts; though silent are your actions, your 
deeds are ghastly facts. Look, how the purple tears from a 
fond wife's breast drop for the loss of her dear husband's love. 
They drop so fast, they wane my strength. See, he weeps ! 
Why this sorrow, brave one? It is the first blow you ever 
struck where kindness tinged your action. Ah, it is regret, not 
sorrow that wets your eyes. Regret that anger forced you to do 
an act that robs your hatred of its victim. Foiled at last, 
foiled, foiled. Ha! ha! ha! 

{She rushes off the stage and is follo%ved />y Agorae riti/s and several 
others) . 

PHILOTAS {aside to A spa si a). 

Now is the time to have the woman and her people enter; 
the}^ may take her before the hunchback returns. 
{At a signal from Fhilotas, Cret/iens and a ni//n/>er of men and tcomen 

enter the gates. He points to Beatrice, loiio lias 7-ailed herself ) . 

There, Cretheus, is your child, whom you have long mourned 
as dead. 



BEATRICE. 
Away ! Do not let her touch me, 

CRETHEUS {going to Bea/rice). 

My Httle Deon, come, my daughter, raise your vail and let 
your mother look upon your face. 

BEATRICE. 

You m.y mother ! What is the meaning of this? 
PHILOTAS. 

She is your mother, Beatrice, and has a perfect right to 
take you with her. 

CRETHEUS. 

Oh yes, I am your mother. You were stolen from me 
when a child, by the hunchback villain who claims you as his 
daughter. 

BEATRICE. 

I do not believe it. I will go to him at once and tell him 
of this. 

ASPASIA. 

Why, Beatrice, you should be glad to go with her after your 
long separation. Agoracritus is not your father, and will so 
declare when compelled to do it. 

CRETHEUS. 
You must come with me, come. 
BEATRICE. 

Go, my mother is dead, and he is my own dear father. 
Aspasia, Philotas, send these people away, do not let her 
touch me. 



CRETHEUS. 

You must come, if I have to drag you all the way. ( Takes 
hold of her') . 

BEATRICE. 

Help ! Help ! Father ! Father, help ! 

(Enter Agorae ri fits hasti/y, throws aside Crethei/s, and takes Beatriee 
ill his arms) . 

AGORACRITUS. 
My child calls for help, away. Who dares lay their hands 
upon her? What want you with my daughter? 

CRETHEUS. 
She is not your child. She is mine, you stole her from me. 

AGORACRITUS. 
Your child ! Beatrice your daughter? 
CRETHEUS. 

Yes, and I have come to take her. Come, citizens, help me 
take her from him. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Back ! Let but one finger be put upon her, and by the 
gods he that does so dies. 

BEATRICE. 

Father, do not let them take me from you. 

PHILOTAS. 

By what right do you separate that mother from her child ? 
Citizens of Athens : Are you willing to admit that every thieving 



miscreant has a right to rob you of your children, and then 
openly defy your powers to claim them. This woman has for 
years been broken hearted, mourning the loss of her only child, 
stolen from her by this man. She suddenly hears the joyful 
news of her existence, and, as you know, comes here full of love 
to clasp the child to her bosom, when the rude hand of him 
whose act has for years darkened her life, is suddenly thrust 
forward and snatches the child from her grasp. I call upon you, 
as citizens, to uphold the righteous laws of Athens. It is your 
duty to keep uncontaminated the moral stream from which the 
youth of Athens drink ; morality is the arch that spans the 
gulf of vice, on which the temple of civilization must rest; de- 
stroy its keystones, Truth and Justice, and the blackened chasm 
would soon entomb the t<*mple. Men of Athens : I say you 
are not fit to be called citizens of this far-famed city, if you do 
not compel him to restore the child to her mother, while death 
should be the penalty of one who openly defies you in your act. 

CITIZENS. 

Philotas is right, it is an outrage, he must give up the child. 

( 'The rabble start toivards Agorae ri tits) . 

AGORACUITLS. 

Back, you have heard the noble Philotas, now listen to me. 
Have I ever asked a favor of Athens? Do you know of one 
act of unkindness or wrong-doing of which you can accuse me? 
I have been called by him a thief and a miscreant, whose sac- 
rilegous hand robs a mother of her child. I say he lies, and 
for it shall answer to me. Who this woman is, I know not ; she 
claims to be the mother of this child : sooner would I rot than 
separate a mother from her offspring. But is it not right that 
I ask for a proof of her relationship? Let her furnish the 
proper evidence of identity, and, though it break my heart, I will 
give up the child. Philotas claims that death should be my 



portion ; that penalty has no fear for me, it is a sentence pro- 
nounced upon us all at the hour of our birth. I would not 
impugn your laws, good friends, for you all know that the laws 
of Athens are righteous laws, for pure and moral men have 
framed them. Who among you would see the idol of his heart, 
the child in whom his very life is centered, given up at the asking ? 
What Athenian will now declare that I ask aught but justice? 
{Pause.) Your silence bears witness that you believe my 
statements true, for, if you regard my acts as profane, then by 
your own confession are you all guilty, and yet you are told 
that you should uphold the laws. {Sarcastically) . And the 
laws of Athens are most righteous, for only moral men have 
framed them. The defender of morality should first make sure 
that the hand of immorality has left no impress on his gar- 
ments. Vice may for a time put on the garb of virtue, but 
the unnatural gait of the Avearer soon proclaims the garments 
borrowed. He would lead you to believe that he is one of the 
country's benefactors; if so, he should ever receive due 
homage from its people. The unselfish deeds of patriotism 
are the brightest jewels that adorn the coronet of manhood, 
whose lustre should not be hid by the modesty of the wearer 
or his friends. That is why I now ask the friends of Philotas 
to summon their remotest recollections to despatch the 
messenger of inquiry to the chambers of memory, and when 
you have, by facts, made knowledge positive, here publicly 
announce one act of Philotas' that claims your admiration. 

{Pause.) No response, ungrateful Athenians? Are noble 
deeds so soon forgotten? Why this silence? I am here to 
learn of the virtues of Philotas, not to disparage them. Speak, 
fear not, the lustre of great deeds shine brightest when admiring 
friends relate them. » 

CITIZENS. 
There are none to announce. 



AGORACRITUS. 

None to announce? Shame, noble Athenians, to so soon for- 
get the benefactor's deeds. Think again, good friends ; remem- 
ber his position — a statesman, a leader of opinion, and a 
soldier. You are forgetful, friends ; you surely can remember 
his virtues if you forget his heroic acts. Do not forget he is 
one who makes your laws {sarcastically), and you know 
that Athenian laws are most righteous. Speak out, most noble 
friends, and glorify your hero. (Pause). Still no response? 
Inquiry has destroyed your memory, shattered your idol, and 
withered the manhood of your leader. 

Citizens of Athens : My life has been a silent one ; you are 
judge of my work. Look upon her. Here is the source from 
which I derive my inspirations — the one whom has ever been my 
solace when the deformity of my body made me an object of 
ridicule to the unthinking, and an unkind world hurled its 
keenest shafts against me ; one whom has ever been my coun- 
sellor and friend ; the model from whom I carved the far-famed 
statues of Athens — Beatrice, the child of Agoracritus. Look ! 
Let your eyes rest upon the beauty of which you would rob me. 

{Agoracritus raises Beatrice's vail) . 

CITIZENS. 
Long live Beatrice, daughter of Agoracritus ! {Loud shouts) . 

END ACT III. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE: NIGHT. 



A Studio in the dwelling of Agoracritus. At the back of 
the room is hung a curtain. 
Agoracritus in meditation. 

AGORACRITUS. 

How stealthily the hand of procrastination steals from us 
the spirit of our firm resolves. Charmed with the transitory- 
pleasures of life, from hour to hour we defer the execution of 
promised duty, until Time, casting upon it doubts and fears, 
dulls its whetted edge of justice, whose keen point first pricked 
our hearts to action. So I have found it. Had not the 
illusions of life blunted resolutions, the thought of duty done, 
not duty yet to be accomplished, would now recline a welcome 
guest in the chambers of my memory. Can it be true that 
this woman is the mother of Beatrice, or is it a fiendish plan of 
Philotas' ? Whether or not this is the case, his life must close. 
It was for that dear child's sake I neglected my duty, as with 
the taking of his life, mine must also end — then she would be 
left alone. Should this woman prove her claim, Beatrice would 
be taken from me. Yes, it must be done ; the spirit of my 
dear mother and of poor Cassandra cries for vengeance. 

{Enter Akibiades.) 

ALCIBIADES. 

Well, Agoracritus, I am sorry for you and Beatrice, but you 
must prepare for the worst. 

AGORACRITUS. 
What do you mean? 



AIXIBIADKS. 

This is only a foul plan hatched by Philotas and Aspasia to 
rob you of Beatrice. Philotas desires her for his mistress, and 
Aspasia is jealous of her beauty; they employ this woman to 
make her claims, knowing you are powerless to prove your 
relationship. So well have their plans been laid that they are 
coming armed with the power of the law, and you must part 
with the child. 

AC.ORACRITUS. 

As I thought. It is his first move in this direction, but by 
the gods it shall be his last. 

ALCIBIADES. 
Do not underrate his power, 

AGORACRITUS. 
Death can shear the mightest of their power. 

ALCIBIADES. 

True, true, but were he dead, there are others whose influ- 
ence is greater, who would not hesitate to use every effort to 
carry out their plans. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Am I to stand and see that dear child destroyed by such as 
they? No, by heaven! I will resort to the last extremity to 
save her. 

ALCIBIADES. 

I am afraid there is nothing you can do to save her; but 
calm yourself, here comes Beatrice. I prefer not to see her. 
Farewell. (Exit). 

{Enter Beatrice). 



BEATRICE. 

Father, dear, do you think that woman will come again? 
Why should she act so ? You are my father, and have often 
spoken of the beauty of my mother. Then why let such as 
she dare make such claims? 

AGORACRITUS {aside). 

Oh, ye gods, could you not spare me the agony of this 
hour? 

BEATRICE. 

You do not speak? Why, the tears are coursing down your 
cheeks. Pardon me, dear father, I had forgotten that any refer- 
ence to my mother so affected you. How truly you must have 
loved her in life, when, after the lapse of so many years, the 
mention of her name casts such a shadow o'er you. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Beatrice, it is perhaps a foolish question for me, the person- 
ification of hideousness, to ask of one so pure and beautiful, to 
give assurance from your lips of your love for me. 

BEATRICE. 

Love you ! Yes, dear father, with a love only limited by the 
capacity of my heart and soul. Symmetry of face and form 
often cover a heart debased, but those attributes whose exist- 
ence makes us men and women are often encased in forms not 
fair proportioned, but whose brilliancy, breaking through their 
flimsy covering, sheds such a halo that we become unconscious 
of the rude-shaped casket containing them. 

AGORACRITUS. 
Do you think you will always hold those feelings ? 



BEATRICE. 

As long, dear father, as this beating heart gives life a lease 
of action. 

AGORACRITUS. 

If you were to learn that I am not whom I seem to be, that 
my life has been a lie, that my actions have been covered by 
base deception, would it change your affection? 

BEATRICE. 

No, for nothing would make me believe it. But why do you 
seem to doubt my love? Would that something might occur 
to show that my affection for you is greater than my love 
of Hfe. 

AGORACRITUS (aside) . 

Oh, this is terrible, each endearing word from her lips add 
another thrust to my lacerated heart. {Aloud). My child, if 
you were to know I — was — but — I cannot. Kiss me, Bea- 
trice. Let me feel the pressure of your arms once more. 

BEATRICE. 

There, let each kiss give lasting assurance of your daughter's 
affection for the best and most tender father. Could you 
read my heart you would see how poorly my words and actions 
express the love there hidden. 

AGORACRITUS. 

My child, I once hoped to carry this secret with me to the 
grave, but justice demands that you should know it. 

BEATRICE. 

Why do you keep me in suspense? Something weighs 
heavy upon your mind. Do not keep it from me. Who should 
comfort you in trouble but your daughter? 



AGORACRITUS. 



Wait a moment, dear, until my trembling lips can frame the 
words, then curse me if you will. 

BEATRICE. 

Father, dear, you will break my heart. Curse you? Why 
do you talk so? Speak! Whatever it is, I can bear it better 
than to see you in such agony. 

AGORACRITUS. 
I am not your father, 

{Enter Crethcus, iDiobscrvcd). 
BEATRICE. 
Not my father? Who is? Tell me. 

AGORACRITUS. 
I know not. 

BEATRICE. 

My mother? Is that woman my mother? 

AGORACRITUS. 

No, not she ; but I cannot tell you whom she is. 

BEATRICE. 

I am not your child, and you can tell me nothing of my 
parents? But how came I in your keeping? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Years have passed since I first took you to my protection, 
but the vividness of that scene still stands in bold relief before 
me. It was at a time when the pall of misery encased me in its 
fold, when a homeless beggar, copying the statues of the city 



and selling them, I passed my time. One day, uhile thus engaged, 
the ridicule of the world and the power of the law hurled its 
wrath upon me. I saw a form lying at the foot of one of the 
statues. It was of a woman, evidently killed by lightning, and 
in whose arms was clasped a babe. At that moment a flash 
disclosed the beauty of its face, and I saw that it lived. In an 
instant my nature was changed. I felt that the gods had sent it 
to me to cheer my lonely life, and from that hour to this her life 
and mine were one. 

BEATRICE. 

And I am that child? 

AGORACRITUS. 
Yes. 

BEATRICE. 

Worse than an orphan, child of whom — I know not. Oh, 
why have you told me, why sever the tender chord that binds 
my life to yours? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Unwillingly, dear child, have I broken it. Did you but 
know the struggle it was, pity, not contempt, would fill your 
heart. You have been my all. For your dear sake I bore the 
taunts and jeers of men, happy in your love. Do not despise 
me ; let the remembrance of past kindness make some atonement 
for my deception. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh don't, dear father, for you must ever be such to me. 
The shock of your disclosure is now passed away. In you I 
see more than father; no natural ties have bound me to 
you, the love of your noble heart has made me yours, for which 
I thank the gods. In your pure affection I have never missed 
a parent's love. 



AGORACRITUS. 

What a heavy weight those words lift from my heart. This 
disclosure has left me happier than I ever expected to be again. 
I feared your condemnation. 

BEATRICE. 

My condemnation ? Let my kisses stop those unkind words. 
What I have been to you in the past, I remain to-day. But 
how do you know that the woman is not my mother? 

AGORACRITUS. 

I have just been told of the infamous plot of Aspasia and 
Philotas. Already they have employed this woman to make 
those claims, afterward they intend you shall pass to the 
keeping of Philotas. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh, father, this is terrible, I would sooner die than that 
they should do this. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Do not fear, my child, we shall not part, believe me. Go 
look at the statue of Venus I have just finished, you will find 
it altered. I will join you presently. 

\^Exit Beatrice behind the eurtain). 
AGORACRITUS. 

Creators of life, give me strength to keep my promise that 
he shall trouble her no more. Sweet dove, shall I stand idly 
by and see you cleft of your plumage, then cast aside for vile 
debauchers to laugh and jeer at? Yes, there is protection for 
her, and though it breaks my heart she shall have it. Athens ! 
Athens ! You boast of wealth and power, while in your bowels 
a corrupting sore is eating out your vitals. A statue of Venus ! 
Oh no, not from my hands shall you receive it. This is the 



reward of vengeance long deferred. One by one from off my 
tree of life his hands have plucked the fairest blossoms, and 
now the last sweet bud, whose unfolding I have so tenderly 
watched, he seeks to wither with his touch. Great Heavens ! 
The thought that he seeks my loved one's ruin ! Ye gods ! Ye 
gods ! 

{Exit behind curtain). 

CRETHEUS. 

Can it be possible that my hope is at last realized ? That I 
have found the child committed to my care? The desire to 
obtain the gold they were to give me for aiding them made me 
hasten here, as I would not be late. Hearing voices in the 
room I entered just in time to learn that this is the child in- 
trusted to my care so many years ago, but since the loss of 
whom I could not dare to meet the mother. Now I may see 
her, and tell her of this kind act of the gods. I know she 
will forgive me, and then I may live as before. I must not de- 
lay, but go at once. What joy ! At last she is found. 
{Exit Crcthci/s) . 
{Enter Ago racritus from belli nd curtain ) . 

AGORACRITUS. 

I have kept my promise, and with its fulfilment all love 
with me has vanished. Through the lowering clouds that have 
ever cast their shadows upon my wretched life, one gleam of 
light has glimmered. Like a beacon it has guided me on my 
weary voyage of existence; the halo of its rays has made me 
see the better side of human nature. Basking under its refulgent 
gleam I was happy. Gazing upon it, "anger, remorse and 
hatred were forgotten. Bathed in its glory, the demon of re- 
venge found an unwelcome habitation in my heart, but it has 
vanished. The few more steps my feet shall take upon the 
path of life must be made without its guidance. If my act is 
displeasing to you, gods of purity and truth, forgive me. You 
know my motives, and that with me all hope has vanished. 



Hope, ah, delusive phantom, you have ever been sparing to me 
of your frail promises, and now, with no upbraiding word, I re- 
sign my body to the casket that holds the unfilled hopes of 
thousands, the dark and silent grave. 

{Enter Philotas, Aspasia, Alcibiadcs and Officers). 
Ah, here they come — vultures to bear away my lamb. 
Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? I suppose 
you want the statue ? 

PHILOTAS. 

First, we want you to deliver Beatrice to her mother. We 
have fully satisfied the law of her relationship, and have come 
armed with its authority. Where is she? 

(Enter Crethei/s). 

CRETHEUS. 

Stop! She is not my child, but the daughter of you, 
Aspasia and Pericles. 

ASPASIA. 

My child? What do you mean? 
CRETHEUS. 

Yes, I am Deon, who, fifteen years ago acted as your nurse, 
and was intrusted with the care of your daughter, who, while 
I lay unconscious from the effect of lightning, was taken from 
me. When I discovered my loss I was afraid to meet you, so 
concealed myself. 

ASPASIA. 

Beatrice my child? Oh, why didn't you tell me of this 
before ? 

CRETHEUS. 

I only learned of her identity a few moments since, when I 
overheard Agoracritus telling the child of the manner in which 
she was found. This is proof of my claim ; you will recog- 
nize it. {Gives her a trinket). 



ASPASIA. 
Oh, Agoracritus, where is she? Tell me quick. 

PHILOTAS. 
Beatrice, the beautiful, your own child, Aspasia? 

AGPRACRITUS. 

But why allow the mantle of disappointment to wrap your 

brow, Philotas? Is it because you would be compelled to feed 

in other pastures? 

ASPASIA. 

I beseech you to keep me no longer in suspense. My heart 
longs to press her to my breast. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Patience, lady, you have lived for years without her ; a few 
moments more will not add to your discomfort. Phiiotas is 
anxious to look upon the statue, modelled from your daughter. 

ASPASIA. 

He can wait, Agoracritus. The yearning of a mother's 
heart prompts not his anxiety. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Impatient to clasp to your breast one you try to ruin with 
your seductive tongue, to aid those that swarm around you 
to bring her to destruction. I have loved her too well to see 
her come to such an end ; keep on in your foul work, bring 
other Grecian maidens to infamy, but she you will never harm. 

ASPASIA. 

I knew not she was my child. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Yet you knew she was a woman ; aye, bow your head and 
weep, but all the tears that ever fell from human eyes cannot 



efface your infamy. You, her mother, disowned her in infancy 
and left her to a stranger's keeping. Then, jealous of her 
beauty, contrived foul plans to ruin her. 

ALCIBIADES. 

Respect her sex, if not her grief, Agoracritus. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Yes, she helped to plan her ruin, while I, the deformed ob- 
ject that I am — aye, wretch, criminal, if you will — found the 
child the mother was ashamed to own, and then hunted and 
made an outcast by the law, took her to my keeping, and so 
instructed her that even her passing form cast virtue's shadow 
over vile Athens. Who has acted the most human part? Let 
the gods you worship judge between us. 

PHI LOTAS. 

If this matter is settled, I will look at the statue and have it 
removed at once. Where is it? I am in a hurry. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Save your commands for your slaves, beast. On the ears 
of Agoracritus they pass unheeded. Why knit your brow? Is 
it because you fear that despite your schemes you have been 
foiled? Curse you ! 

PHILOTAS. 

Away from me ! I will settle with you yet. 

AGORACRITUS. 

No doubt your will is good enough, but men who murder 
women never strike an adversary openly. Ah, what pales 
your cheek, Philotas? Do my words call up unpleasant 
remembrances? 



PHI LOTAS. 

Your words sound like the jumbled utterances of a lunatic. 
But the statue? I will attend to these insults later. 

AGORACRITUS. 

You do not answer. Can it be that this vile tale has truth? 

PHI LOTAS. 

The babbling tongue of gossip makes no impression upon 

me. 

AGORACRITUS. 

'Tis well. I thought it strange, aye, most passing 
strange, that you, Philotas, an Athenian general, the adviser of 
great Pericles, should stoop so low; but take it not too much 
at heart; to be scandalized is a debt that greatness pays to 
low born, envious hordes. 

ASPASIA. 

Why prolong my torture by reciting scandal? Restore to 

me my child. 

AGORACRITUS. 

Come first a;nd see my work, and while Philotas gazes on 
the statue, you shall look upon the child you tried to ruin. 
Come, Philotas, patron of art, and lover of purity, come fix 
your eyes on beauty. There, mistress of Pericles, is your child. 
{Draws curtain disclosing the dead body of Beatrice. Aspasia screams, 
and kneels over the body) . 

PHILOTAS. 

Wretch, you have killed her. 

AGORACRITUS. 

{Throiving the drapery front the statue of Nemesis at the head of the 
body). 
Here, Philotas, is your statue. 



ALL. 

A Nemesis? 

AGORACRITUS. 

Yes, made to keep forever fresh the memory of your vil- 
lany and my revenge. (Catching Fhilotas by the throat). You, 
the persecutor of my youth, assassin of my mother, over 
whose dead form I registered a vow to kill. (Stads him). 

PHI LOTAS {'(ri'/g)- 

Adrene's son. You have killed your father. (Dies). 

AGORACRITUS. 

My father? I, a parricide? 

(Alcibiades and Officers go tcnoards him ; he waves them off and 
sfal's himself) . 

ASPASIA. 

Dead, my child dead? 

AGORACRITUS (dying). 

Yes, in soft and painless sleep ; I return her sweet life back 
to the gods who gave it. She, whom had I a thousand lives 
and into each were pressed the bliss of an eternity, I would 
have sacrificed to have saved from one keen touch of sorrow. 
To save her I shattered my idol, in whom were centered my 
life, my hope, my all. Hush, break not the silence, another 
soul glides to the eternal. (Dies). 
Curtain. 

END ACT IV. 



